


The Tempering Year

by Laylah



Category: Star Ocean: The Last Hope
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coming of Age, Community: hardmode, Fight Scenes, Friendship, M/M, Pederasty, Science Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-14
Updated: 2010-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:53:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the genetically engineered core of Eldarian society, the last year of a young man or woman's education is spent in partnership with a mentor, who teaches the cadet the skills necessary for success in a profession -- and takes responsibility for educating the cadet in other aspects of adult behavior, as well. This year, the Hive in its proverbial wisdom has assigned one of the rising cadets, Faize, to be mentored by Arumat, the captain of the Thirteenth Independent Armored Division. The Thirteenth has a reputation for being dangerous, even savage, but Faize is determined to prove himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tempering Year

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the Hardmode gaming fandoms big bang on Dreamwidth. Art to accompany the story was created by eggsbenedict and is posted here: http://eggsbenedict.dreamwidth.org/75189.html (Please note, the art is not worksafe!)

Faize hits the floor of the arena hard, and tries to muffle the noise of pain jarred from his throat. He'd thought himself skilled with the sword, until today. Now, facing his new captain -- his new master -- he realizes how far he has to go. His whole body aches, and there are tremors running through him as he tries to climb to his feet for another pass. It's fruitless; he was outmatched when this bout began, and all the more so now, when he can barely keep a grip on his rapier and Arumat is still not even breathing hard. Faize wonders if any of his year-mates are having similarly humbling experiences today -- perhaps he oughtn't hope so, but he does. It seems unfair for him to have _all_ the ill luck.

He manages to take his stance again, and even takes the quick steps of the lunge when Arumat beckons for him to attack. He's too slow, though -- he sees the block as Arumat readies it, but can't make his leaden limbs compensate fast enough. The impact jars through him and he falls once more. Frustration makes his eyes burn, makes his throat tight. He's failing, already, on his very first day.

This time, instead of stepping back to wait for him to recover, Arumat kneels beside him. "That's enough," he says.

Faize's stomach clenches. "I'm sorry, sir," he says. "Let me -- I can keep going. I can."

"You're slowing down too much," Arumat says. "It'll only get harder to avoid injuring you if we keep going now." He brushes damp hair off Faize's forehead casually, then lays his fingers flat against the pulse hammering beneath Faize's jaw.

"I'm sorry," Faize says again. Being attached to the Thirteenth is supposed to be an honor, a sign that a young candidate has demonstrated potential far beyond most of his peers, and here he is --

"What for?" Arumat asks.

"I -- I've failed you," Faize says. It's hard to say it.

Arumat snorts. "You're not here because you're _already_ a first-rate soldier," he says. "You're here because you could become one." He holds a flask to Faize's lips. "Drink."

It's shameful, to be fed as though he's a child, but Faize does as he's told. The liquid in the flask is water-thin but sweet, and he makes a surprised noise. He can't remember anything tasting so good, ever.

"Just a little at a time," Arumat says, taking the flask away again. "Too much too fast and you'll make yourself sick." He stands, easy and predatory, towering over Faize. "Come on. Time to go get washed up." He extends a hand for Faize to take.

Faize wonders briefly whether refusing the offered hand would be a good move, demonstrating independence, or a bad one, insulting an offer of kindness. The question is academic anyway, given how much trouble he's had climbing to his feet toward the end of their match. He puts his hand in Arumat's and Arumat pulls him up easily, as though he weighs nothing. They are so close, like this; Faize stands scarcely shoulder-high to Arumat. He imagines himself pinned under Arumat's weight, taken, and shudders.

He tries to push the thought away. There's no sense in being nervous about the inevitable. Surely the gossip of the other cadets exaggerated how cruel Arumat would be. It -- it must have.

Arumat lets go Faize's hand and turns away. "Follow me," he says.

"Yes, sir," Faize says. He stumbles after his new captain, achingly grateful the bout is over at last.

The warriors of the Thirteenth have their own training facilities, which only those pledged to their division are permitted to enter; today is the first day Faize has ever set foot inside them. From the grim reputation the Thirteenth has with the other divisions, much less the civilian branches of government -- Tarik suggested last night that there would be symbological blood oaths required, and he only half sounded as though he was joking -- Faize was expecting something dismal. A dungeon, perhaps, decorated with grisly trophies taken from kills.

The short hallway between the arena simulator and the bathing facilities is perfectly ordinary, though: well-lit and hung with banners, not severed heads. The other cadets will be disappointed by his report. The bathing facilities themselves don't appear to offer much in the way of privacy, but otherwise they're well-appointed; the room is heavy with steam, the warm stone tiles shining wet. The near side of the room has shelves and hooks in the wall, for clothing, and the far side has several shower spouts in a row. There's one man already there, standing under the shower spray, tall -- though not so tall as Arumat -- and lean, his hair a rich indigo and slicked to his shoulders. He turns toward the door as they walk in, and his eyes flick from Arumat to Faize and back again.

"Captain," he says, nodding faintly. When he turns further, Faize can see a broad, mottled scar sweeping across his side, from hip level nearly halfway up his ribs. "Shall I leave you two alone?"

"Do what you want," Arumat says, shaking his head. He's unbuckling the harness for his pauldrons already.

Faize tries to take a few deep, steadying breaths, but there's nothing steadying about any of this. His hands tremble as he fights with his buttons; between the exhaustion and his nerves, he can barely work them.

The water shuts off before Faize has quite managed to remove his shirt. When he looks up, the stranger is wringing water out of his hair. "I'll leave you to it," he says. As he brushes past Arumat to reach for a towel, Faize thinks he can hear Arumat sigh in annoyance.

By the time the stranger has wrapped himself in a towel and collected his things, Arumat has finished stripping. Faize tries not to look, tries to make himself continue. If anything, Arumat seems _more_ intimidating with his clothes off.

"What are you waiting for?" he asks, glancing over at Faize.

Faize blushes. "I'm sorry," he says. He bends to unzip his boots, awkward as that is -- taking them off makes him feel defenseless, not least because of the hand's breadth of height it costs him.

"Stop apologizing," Arumat says. "And stop cringing. I will not harm you." He turns the water on before Faize can think of a way to express contrition without disobeying that order.

The best he can do, Faize decides, is to try to behave with dignity himself. He finishes undressing, leaves his clothes neatly folded on one of the shelves, and steps up to the shower tap next to Arumat's. The tiles under his feet feel just slightly gritty, the stone rough-ground; when he turns on the water it's immediately warm.

His muscles are grateful for the heat, even if his stomach is still in knots; Faize leans into the spray and does his best to enjoy it. There's a soap dispenser in the wall that provides a generous handful of foam when he stretches his hand beneath it, and he spends a few minutes dedicating all his attention to bathing. It feels good to cleanse the sweat from his skin, to work lather into his hair. Faize closes his eyes and tips his head back to rinse.

When he opens his eyes again, Arumat is watching him. Faize glances down for a moment and then wishes he hadn't; _everything_ about Arumat is intimidatingly large.

It takes two steps for Arumat to close the distance between them. Faize tenses instinctively, but the touch, when it comes, is gentle, a hand on his shoulder. "Are you finished here?" Arumat asks.

Faize swallows hard, then nods. How much time could he honestly bargain for in the showers, anyway? How much would it even help, when he feels like this?

"Come with me, then," Arumat says.

"Yes, sir," Faize says, though he can scarcely hear his own voice over the spatter of water on stone.

They shut the water off, and Faize follows Arumat to find the towels. He catches himself studying Arumat again -- there isn't anywhere else to look, is there? Wet, Arumat's hair darkens from silver to steel, though even the shower's heat hasn't managed to bring any color to his pallid skin. His scars -- so many scars! -- are livid against his pallor, reminders of what it means to fight with the Thirteenth. He doesn't bother to dress, only wraps a towel around his hips and collects his clothes, so Faize does likewise. He feels appallingly vulnerable, following Arumat into the hall still undressed, but he doesn't want to earn Arumat's annoyance by delaying them, especially when his coordination is so lacking.

It turns out they don't have far to go; there's an elevator only a few paces further down the hall, and they ride it to the top floor without encountering anyone. Arumat's own rooms are at the end of the hall, and his palm against the keypad opens the door. Faize's stomach rolls over uncomfortably as he follows Arumat inside.

If the barracks were not what he expected, then Arumat's rooms are doubly a surprise in their normalcy. There is a desk with a datapad left sitting on it, a covered viewscreen on one wall and a window on another, red light seeping in below the blinds; there is a low table with a chess board inlaid, and a shelf that holds an assortment of curios. A half-wall separates that space from the sleeping area further back, where Arumat goes now. Faize falters only slightly, going with him.

There is a wardrobe in the corner; Arumat drops his clothes there and hangs his towel from a hook on the wall. Faize does likewise, for all that he's trembling. He will not shame himself if he can avoid it.

He looks up to meet Arumat's eyes, and Arumat glances from him to the bed. Faize nods. He doesn't need orders, and he's glad for the chance to act without them.

It still takes more courage than he would like to cross to the low bed and sink down onto it. The sheets are the same dark red as the Thirteenth's banners, and softer than he would have expected. Faize pillows his head on his crossed forearms and waits. The bed frame creaks as Arumat kneels behind him.

"Not like this," Arumat says, and rolls Faize over with a hand curled around his hip.

"Sir?" Faize says. He looks up as Arumat stretches out beside him; in the low light, Arumat's eyes are mostly black, barely rimmed in gold.

"Have you done this before?" Arumat asks.

Faize shakes his head. Badir offered, after the assignments had been posted -- most of the other cadets seemed to think he ought to take the opportunity with _someone_ before the year began -- but Faize didn't do it. "I'm here to learn," he says.

Arumat nods. He slides one knee between Faize's, and an easy shift of his weight pins Faize down. His strength is breathtaking. He opens his mouth, draws a breath as if he would speak -- and then says nothing, only leans down to kiss Faize's mouth.

Faize has never been kissed before this. Only in the last year -- behind most of his class, he's sure -- had he started to think he'd like to be. Arumat's lips press his, the flesh soft but the touch firm. Faize knows enough to open his mouth, and Arumat accepts the offer without hesitation, his tongue pressing past Faize's lips. The raw sensuality of the act catches Faize unprepared, makes his own mouth suddenly strange to him. Goosebumps prickle along his skin, and his cock stirs. He brushes his tongue against Arumat's, tentative at first, and Arumat strokes his hip -- to encourage him, he thinks. It certainly feels like encouragement. He kisses back a little more boldly, and Arumat makes a low sound in his throat that sends a nervous thrill down Faize's spine.

He doesn't make noise himself until Arumat moves his hand, sliding down from Faize's hip to his thigh and then inward, callused fingers stroking Faize's balls. The touch is gentle -- more gentle than Faize would ever have thought Arumat could be -- but it makes him whimper embarrassingly. He wraps his arms around Arumat's shoulders carefully, and Arumat hums into his mouth. None of the other cadets' morbidly delighted speculation included kisses like this.

Arumat teases him until he's fully hard, then takes hold of his cock. His hand is huge, rough with calluses from his scythe -- but the roughness feels good, Faize discovers. The strangeness of it is exciting, a pleasure he didn't get from his own touch. He's rocking his hips in response by the time Arumat releases his mouth and pulls back.

"I don't know what you've already been told," Arumat says, "but you'll make this easier on yourself if you can yield."

Faize nods. "Yes, sir."

Arumat sighs, as if he had argued. "When you began symbology study, your instructor would have taught you how to calm your mind -- how to relax enough to receive the symbol's power." He reaches across Faize for a bottle set on a shelf beside the bed. "This is a similar principle, relaxing your body rather than your mind."

"To receive your power?" Faize says before he can help himself. He ducks his head, blushing. He should not _goad_ Arumat when he's being so patient!

But Arumat doesn't look angry -- surprised, yes, but perhaps pleased as well. It takes a moment before he says, "Let me help you prepare."

"Yes, sir," Faize says. "Thank you."

The bottle holds oil, which Arumat applies to his fingers rather than his cock. He reaches down between Faize's legs, the heel of his hand brushing gently against Faize's balls as his fingers explore further. "Touch your cock," he says, stroking the oil into the crack of Faize's ass.

Faize does as he's told; it seems a smart move, to distract himself with something familiar and pleasurable while Arumat touches him in such a tender place. His exhaustion, too, might even make this easier -- his thighs tremble when he tenses even slightly; he can't hold any tense position for long. When he gives up the effort, relaxing into the sheets, Arumat presses, and Faize cannot stifle a tiny nervous sound as he feels himself penetrated.

"Calm," Arumat reminds him, moving slowly, deeper, filling him. "This is not a time to fight."

"No, sir," Faize says. He breathes slowly, trains his mind on the still, silent pool that he uses to focus his energies for symbology. He finds he can't both hold that thought and keep stroking himself, but Arumat doesn't rebuke him when his hand falters.

Arumat opens him slowly but inexorably, adding a second finger and then a third; Faize trembles and whimpers, and when he tries to stammer an apology for his show of weakness Arumat kisses him silent. It is every bit as overwhelming an experience as he'd thought it would be, though...easier, for all that. The callousness he had expected isn't there, and instead he finds care, slow and cautious.

By the time Arumat withdraws his fingers, Faize is boneless beneath him; his limbs feel weak, his hole stretched and tender -- not hurting but so sensitive, so unused to this pressure and friction. Arumat kneels between Faize's spread thighs, then takes him by the hips to pull him into Arumat's lap. He hooks one of Faize's legs over his shoulder, and Faize feels wantonly exposed, his legs splayed so, his hole so easily available.

"Keep breathing," Arumat says -- which seems a silly thing to say, but then his cock slides thick and hard between the cheeks of Faize's ass, and Faize might well have held his breath without the reminder. He breathes, closing his eyes, and Arumat pushes -- slowly, so slowly, but unstoppable -- and his cock spreads Faize so wide that it feels as though there won't be any _room_ for breath, for anything but him.

"Oh," Faize says helplessly. "Oh." He's shaking, already overtaxed muscles incapable of responding.

Arumat pulls him closer, pulls Faize further onto his cock, until he has seated the full length of it in Faize's ass. He rocks his hips then, not enough to truly pull out at all, and makes a satisfied, low sound.

"So much," Faize says. "Feels -- so full."

"Are you hurting?" Arumat asks. His voice is soft; Faize thinks it might be intended to be gentle.

He shakes his head. "Doesn't hurt," he says. "It's just -- you're so big."

Arumat makes an amused sound, not quite laughter. "I'm sorry to ask so much of you, your first time."

Faize tries to smile back. "W-what else should I expect? Everyone knows h-how demanding the Thirteenth is."

That makes Arumat laugh in truth, the sound short and sharp. "What the rumors don't tell you," he says, "is that we take care of our own." He's still holding Faize's leg raised with one hand, and now curls the other around Faize's cock -- and for an instant Faize is surprised he would be already counted among that number, but the raw excess of sensation robs him of the wit to say so. It's strange, to be so spread and stretched, and to combine that sensation with the familiar pleasure of having his cock stroked leaves him breathless.

So he does the only thing he can do: he takes his captain's order -- suggestion? -- and yields, surrenders himself to heat and pressure and friction. He thinks at first that he might not be able to reach climax like this, exhausted and unaccustomed to being filled, but Arumat is relentless, moving in a slow, steady rhythm that somehow transforms from reassuring to irresistible. Faize trembles and shivers and finds the last tension left in him gathering at the base of his cock, drawing tight all that's left of his strength, and when it spills from him he thinks he has never felt such relief.

*

The temple's dawn bell wakes Arumat, distant though it is. He takes a deep breath, feeling the pull of unfamiliar exercise between his low ribs, and rolls over to begin the first series of the warrior's rising poses -- and stops himself just in time to avoid crushing his cadet, who still sleeps on the far side of his bed, curled into a defensive little ball. Asleep, the boy actually looks as young as he is, his face smooth, his lips soft. He's a masterpiece of genetic design, his features delicate and balanced, his hair the pale green of youth, his eyes a striking purple. An engineer who can produce vivid colors like that is considered first-rate, and to be able to select not only that much color but also that much sculpting...whoever designed Faize ranks among the finest practitioners of the art.

It seems ridiculous that the Hive would assign him to the Thirteenth when he's been so well made. Ridiculous and _laughable_ that they would put his education in Arumat's hands, when they would be hard pressed to find someone less suitable in the upper ranks. The wisdom of the Hive is proverbial, but this --

Arumat puts the anger aside. He's been given worse orders, though they were simpler ones; forging one of the elevated cadets into a capable leader is not so straightforward as winning a battle. He has never trained for this. Regardless, as captain of the the Thirteenth Independent Armored Division he answers only to the Hive, and he does not -- cannot -- take that responsibility lightly.

He curls one hand around Faize's shoulder and squeezes gently. "It's morning," he says.

Faize's eyelids flutter, then snap open at the same instant that his body goes tense under Arumat's hand. "S-sir," he says, his voice still thick with sleep. "I -- did I -- I'm sorry."

"You should apologize much less than you do," Arumat says, and regrets his tone when Faize flinches. He sighs. This was a terrible idea. "How do you feel?" he asks.

"F-fine," Faize says. He pushes himself up to sitting position, and he does a fairly good job of masking the discomfort in his expression but the stiffness in his limbs is plain.

Arumat shakes his head. "Try again," he says. "I want honesty, not bravado."

He half expects Faize to apologize again, but after an awkward moment Faize says quietly, "Still -- still tired, sir. Sore." His eyes flick up to Arumat's face, as if he's trying to determine whether he's reporting correctly. Arumat does his best to make his expression calm; Nadra tells him that he scowls when he isn't thinking about anything in particular. "I'm...not in such good condition as I thought I was."

"Better," Arumat says. That's obviously relief softening the corners of Faize's mouth. This is going to be a long year. "Where are you sore? Is it from the arena, or...last night?"

Faize's cheeks turn pink. "B-both," he says. "Last night was -- I hadn't realized how much exertion it would be." He ducks his head, and the breath he takes seems sure to turn into another apology.

"Only sore from the exertion, though?" Arumat says to forestall him, and Faize nods. "Good." He'll be feeling that himself for the rest of the day, though it's one of the most pleasant sorts of ache he can think of. "Here, follow me. Don't strain yourself if your body won't cooperate completely -- you want to stretch your muscles, not damage them."

There isn't room enough for two people to do the rising sequence on Arumat's bed, so he moves to the floor; Faize follows him gingerly. Arumat leads the sequence, moving automatically from one posture to the next, letting the count of his breath tell him how long to hold each. It looks as though more than soreness makes Faize slow to follow -- he pauses more than once before he copies the pose, and Arumat has to remind him at a few points to pay attention to the angle of a joint or the shape he's meant to hold.

"Your teachers didn't think this was very important," Arumat concludes as they finish the sequence, kneeling opposite each other on the floor.

"I-I suppose not," Faize says cautiously. He shakes his head. "They said it was good for us, but never -- never really focused on it. And nobody wants to be bothered in the dorms."

Arumat nods. "Make a habit of it from now on," he says. "You'll find it helps."

"Yes, sir," Faize says. His stomach growls, and he covers it with his hands, looking embarrassed.

Arumat snorts. "I'll have some food sent up," he says, and rises to find himself some clothes. "The day is yours -- you're welcome to stay here for a while longer if you need the rest. Your training starts tomorrow." He pulls on a pair of trousers and buttons them; when he looks over, Faize is watching him.

"Tomorrow, sir?" Faize says, as though he's been waiting for Arumat's attention to give him permission to speak. "What am I to do today?"

"Recover," Arumat says. "Yesterday I tested your limits. Tomorrow we start to improve them."

"Ah," Faize says. "Thank you, sir."

Arumat shakes his head. "Don't thank me so soon. You'll still be sore tomorrow."

When he picks up his harness, Faize appears to realize all at once that he isn't dressed, fumbling for the clothes he was wearing yesterday. Arumat turns away to give him some privacy, and goes to order some food. By the time he's finished, Faize is mostly dressed.

"You'll have some breakfast here soon," Arumat says. "Careful when you get the door -- from outside it only opens for me."

Faize blinks at him. "You aren't staying, sir?"

"I have work to do," Arumat says. "I'll expect you in the training arena at second bell tomorrow."

"Y-yes, sir," Faize says.

Arumat hesitates for a moment; would it be too familiar for him to kiss Faize before he leaves? Better not to, he decides. This is nothing either of them chose. They're both here because they're doing their duty. "Have a good day," he says, and lets himself out.

Perhaps this was a challenge, if it wasn't simply an error. Perhaps the Hive seek to test him -- he was promoted in the first place for his combat skill, but a leader has to be able to do more than just fight. Perhaps they hope he'll leave a legacy, when his time runs short; nobody seems to be certain of how much time he has left.

He leaves the Thirteenth's own facilities, crossing the green toward the mess hall. If that _is_ the purpose of this exercise, then he will meet the challenge. The boy has raw promise enough, the way all the engineered cadets ought to; Arumat can handle his conditioning. And he has lieutenants who can handle the specifics -- Malik is talented with water symbols, so he can teach Faize the advanced techniques there; if he continues to favor light swords, then Nadra can show him how to make best use of the weapon. It's not a bad choice, given his build. And the...other elements of his education....

It would be reasonable to give charge of _that_ to one of the others, too; likely any of them has more experience, and certainly a better understanding of how the apprentice-year roles are meant to be played. Arumat thinks back to the previous evening, the incredible, sensual indulgence of it, Faize spread out beneath him and surrendering, the friction and heat -- all of the engineered corps are beautiful, so it seems frivolous to be moved by that. But not all of them would have been so willing, not for someone like Arumat. Faize was nervous, yes, but not afraid.

He's being selfish and he knows it. But he doesn't want to hand Faize over to someone else.

*

After that first overwhelming day, Faize starts to settle into the routine of his tempering year: his days start early, with the exercises Arumat insisted on, before breakfast, often before the rest of his year-mates have crawled out of their bunks. They teased him a bit about his sudden dedication, but he ignores that to the best of his ability; after a few days it didn't seem to entertain them anymore, apart from Badir's occasional speculation about how useful it must be for him to be flexible. For the most part, Faize doesn't have the energy to waste in arguing about something so silly; his days are hard enough. After breakfast he meets Arumat in the arena to train, to work on his strength and his stamina -- yet another thing the others could tease him about, were he to say a word about it -- and when they've done enough training that he feels he can't stand it anymore, or perhaps a bit more than that, they break for a mid-day meal, and after _that_ he has either strategy practice with Arumat or symbology lessons with Malik, the man he met in the showers on the first day.

For the first few lessons, that's almost unbearably awkward; everyone in the Thirteenth knows he's been assigned to Arumat, and what that means, but it's a less immediate, less certain knowledge, with most of them. Still, the point of Malik's lessons is to teach him to control complex symbols, and eventually Faize has to set his embarrassment aside simply to be able to concentrate enough to learn. He finds, once it's gone, that he doesn't miss the awkwardness at all.

In the evenings, after supper, he reports to Arumat's quarters for the last of his lessons; that seems to remain overwhelming no matter how many times they try it. Arumat...Faize isn't quite sure how to read him. He makes no romance of their encounters, certainly. He is attentive and thorough, and the physical pleasure is undeniable; Faize stumbles back to his own bunk, most nights, at the very least pleased with the process that has left him so exhausted. And apart from those evening sessions in his rooms, Arumat acts as though they're no more closely acquainted than being simply comrades. Where some of the other mentors seem to dote on their students, where Dima shows up to supper with telltale marks on her neck and Iska apparently has gifts he's received from his superior in the shipwrights, Arumat shows no such obvious favor. That doesn't stop the other cadets from speculating -- they were so _certain_ that Faize's lot must be terrible, they seem to resort to inventing stories when he has nothing to report to them.

He has no time for any of that, he tells himself most of the time. He has important lessons to learn, and most of them have nothing to do with bedplay at all. If they can't see that -- if they don't have similar concerns themselves -- that's no problem of his.

After the first fortnight, one morning when he reports to the arena for his conditioning session Arumat is not alone. Lieutenant Nadra is there with him, running through a series of rapier forms when Faize arrives. She is the highest-ranking swordfighter in the Thirteenth, and Arumat had mentioned that she would eventually be involved in Faize's training -- yet it seems...too soon, somehow, when he still struggles to keep up with the pace Arumat sets in basic physical training.

"Ah," Faize says, and salutes both of them. "Good morning, captain, lieutenant."

"Morning," Nadra says, finishing the lunge sequence she was peforming. She stands taller than Faize, though not as much as Arumat does; most of the Thirteenth do. None of them were designed for the inner administrative core, the way Faize thought he had been. They're built like warriors, where he...is anything but. Still, when Arumat comes to stand beside her, she looks delicate by comparison.

"You get to take it easy this morning," Arumat says. He glances over at Nadra. "I've asked Nadra to come help me show you something."

"Thank you," Faize says, nodding to her. "I'm grateful for your expertise."

Her smile twists at one corner, and her eyes are copper-bright. "Keep that in mind once it's my turn to drill you," she says. She glances at Arumat. "Ready when you are, captain."

Arumat nods. "Pay attention," he tells Faize. "Nadra is going to demonstrate how to fight an opponent who outmatches you in reach and raw strength."

"I --" Faize begins to protest, and stops himself. He _knows_ what he needs to do to stand a chance, knows that his speed and agility are where his strength will lie. If he tries to say so, though, Arumat might ask _him_ to demonstrate, and knowing the theory is different than being able to manage. Particularly with Arumat for an opponent; the difference in their levels of power is simply too much. "I will endeavor to learn."

They step out onto the arena floor, weapons drawn. Nadra has a sword-breaker guard in her off hand to balance her rapier; Arumat needs only his scythe. For a moment they circle each other slowly, and Faize admires how striking their contrast is: Arumat wears the Thirteenth's burgundy, but Nadra wears white, interrupted only by the scarlet coil of her braid down her back. It seems a frivolous thing for a member of the Thirteenth to consider, but -- intimidation is a useful weapon, isn't it? And they each present an extremely impressive appearance.

Then they begin the bout, and Faize stops thinking of anything else. Arumat lunges forward, his scythe carving the air before him in a brutal arc -- so much faster than when he's fought with Faize! -- and Nadra simply _isn't there_ when the strike lands. She's airborne, vaulting over him, twisting to bring her blade down. Arumat recovers before she can land the blow, thrusting the back end of his scythe back and up to knock her away. She flips in the air, lands on her feet, skidding to a halt, and she laughs shortly before she launches herself at him again.

The fight moves so fast that there are points when Faize can't even keep up. Nadra spins, flips, ducking in close, making Arumat use his scythe shaft to block instead of giving him freedom to swing it easily. He compensates with weaponless strikes, punching to halt her momentum, kicking to drive her back. Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth and runs from a shallow gash along his arm.

She lands in a crouch on the far side of the arena and pauses there, as though she's catching her breath. She's too far away, Faize thinks. That's all the opening Arumat needs. Faize holds his breath as Arumat lunges for the attack and Nadra doesn't move, doesn't ready a counter, doesn't -- she darts past him, around him, striking at his back. He pivots out of his first attack almost instantly, turning to counter her, and she _leaps_ , strikes downward, knocks him to the arena floor.

Faize stares. He wouldn't have thought _anyone_ could blindside Arumat like that.

And when Arumat picks himself up off the floor, he's grinning. "You've been practicing that," he says.

Nadra shrugs. "Wouldn't want you to get too comfortable."

"Gods forbid," Arumat says, and launches himself at her again.

It's possible they were only warming up before this, Faize realizes with a jolt. The arena rings with the clash of their blades, and light flares up between them as they unleash chained attacks. This looks less like a practice bout and more like a real struggle, now -- except that any time Faize catches a glimpse of their faces, they look delighted. Fierce and focused, yes, but like they're enjoying themselves, too. This is where the Thirteenth gets its reputation, from the warriors in its ranks who crave battle. But the rumors don't do them justice, don't make it clear how _thrilling_ they are to watch -- and he's been chosen to join them, to become what they are.

The whirlwind of attacks comes to a sudden halt when Nadra runs out of room to move, and Arumat pins her against the arena wall. There's a moment of tense silence as they hold still there, breathing hard, and then he says, "I suppose I'm still captain."

She smiles. "Looks like you're stuck with it."

He lets go, stepping back, and they both sheathe their weapons with fluid, automatic gestures before they turn toward Faize.

"All right," Nadra says, and the look in her eyes makes Faize take an involuntary step back. "Let's see what you can do."

*

By the end of the first month, Arumat is beginning to feel more confident about the entire tempering process: a tenth of the year is done, with no catastrophe. His lieutenants report favorably on Faize's progress, and his own observations concur; the boy is not yet truly up to the Thirteenth's standards, but he will be, if his determination doesn't falter. Already he's quicker and stronger than he was a month ago. And familiarity has displaced his fear, so that he is less hesitant to ask questions or offer opinions. Instead of being an unwelcome burden, his education has become an enjoyable challenge.

Tomorrow is the first of the new month, and thus a rest day; when Arumat returns to his rooms after the evening meal, he brings a small bottle of brandy with him. Faize will likely want to spend tomorrow with his year-mates to actually celebrate the holiday, but it seems appropriate to toast his successful beginnings this evening. Arumat sets the brandy on the table and pulls up some troop review statistics on his datapad to keep himself busy until Faize arrives.

Faize is typically punctual, but this evening it's a good fifteen minutes past the bell before he knocks at the door. "Come in," Arumat says, and the door opens.

"Forgive me my tardiness, sir," Faize says, bowing stiffly. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"At ease," Arumat says. "What happened?"

Faize shakes his head. "I-it's a frivolous complaint," he says. "I shouldn't trouble you."

Arumat frowns. "I'm responsible for your well being. I want to know when you're having problems."

"Thank you, sir," Faize says. He smiles, though it looks forced. "Truly, it's nothing serious. I -- I had a disagreement with one of the other cadets in the barracks this evening, that's all." His cheeks flush, and he looks away. "He said some unflattering things about you, which I...took badly."

"You didn't hurt him too much, I hope," Arumat says. He's trying not to smile, because Faize is clearly still upset, but he's touched. He'd thought it would be months before Faize felt strongly enough about the Thirteenth to take their side in an argument with civilians. "I'd be forced to discipline you, and I'd much rather not."

Faize tries again to smile, but it still looks pained. "We didn't come to blows," he says. "But he was...quite unwilling to believe that was your preference."

Arumat raises an eyebrow, and thumbs the switch on his datapad to put it to sleep. "Perhaps you should tell me the whole story, rather than leaving me to piece it together."

"Sir," Faize says. He clasps his hands behind his back as though he's reciting a drill report, and still won't quite look Arumat in the eye. "There honestly isn't much to tell. I went back to the cadets' barracks after supper to wash up and change my clothes. Badir came in while I was undressed, and on noticing my bruises asked what I had done to displease you. I said nothing, as far as I knew." He pauses, and smiles a little more naturally as he glances at Arumat. "That sounds awfully over-confident now that I have to repeat it to you."

"Maybe," Arumat says. "Go on."

Faize nods. "He concluded that -- that you didn't require an excuse to...indulge yourself by hurting me. He was -- rather insulting about it when I tried to explain that I'd gotten those bruises from training and nothing more."

"Of course," Arumat says. The brandy will keep for some other evening; tonight seems like less of a celebratory occasion than he might have hoped. He gets up, comes over to place a steadying hand on Faize's shoulder. "Your year-mate is an idiot," he says, and that startles a brief laugh out of Faize. "It happens all the time. All the civilians know is that we're dangerous. They don't understand how that really works, so they assume we take it out on each other." The rumors treat him as a bogeyman; he's overgrown, unnaturally white, and plentifully scarred -- of course when civilians imagine beautiful, small-boned Faize in his bed, they'd assume.... "I know the things they believe about you are unflattering. But you know they're wrong. You know, and the rest of the Thirteenth knows, that you're far more powerful than they realize."

The praise makes Faize stand up straighter, makes him lift his chin to look Arumat in the eyes. "Thank you, sir," he says. "I-it's not only my own reputation I'd like to defend." He takes a deep breath. "For him -- for _all_ of them -- to assume that it's an ordeal for me to come here, that you're abusing me, when in truth you've been so patient and considerate --"

"Faize," Arumat says, and he stops. "You'll only frustrate yourself if you start worrying about my reputation. There's nothing to be done about it. I'm grateful for your concern, but it's not necessary."

"I --" Faize says, as if he would argue, but then he stops and shakes his head. "I will do my best," he says. "I will try to remind myself that it is unworthy of me to be concerned with petty gossip."

Arumat nods. "Good," he says. He feels the deliberate settling of Faize's shoulders under his hand, the conscious insistence on letting the anger go. "If you would like the evening off," he says, "you may have it. Start your holiday early."

Faize says nothing for a moment, studying Arumat's face as if trying to read him. "No, sir," he says, clear and steady. "I will stay. U-unless you want me to leave."

"No," Arumat says, "I don't want that at all."

"I'm glad," Faize says. He reaches up to twine his arms around Arumat's neck, and Arumat leans down to meet him for a kiss. A month ago, Faize's kisses were tentative, cautious -- too defensive, like his swordplay, unwilling to take risks and extend himself. He's learned a lot of confidence since then, and it shows here as much as it does in the arena. He shivers when Arumat starts to tug open the fastenings of his uniform, making a noise into Arumat's mouth that sounds like welcome.

Arumat strips him slowly, stroking his skin as it's bared, and Faize arches toward his hands. He is lucky that Faize doesn't have anyone to compare him to, and he knows that -- but it feels good in any case to have Faize respond as if he's skilled enough to satisfy.

"Please," Faize says as Arumat pushes his trousers down off his narrow hips, "you, too." His fingers curl in the waistband of Arumat's trousers, pulling.

"Gladly," Arumat says. He unbuckles his pauldrons and shrugs out of them, and then stops in surprise as Faize kneels in front of him to see to his boots. His heart is suddenly in his throat, watching the deliberate care in Faize's movements as he opens each catch. Arumat reaches down and cradles Faize's face in his hand; Faize looks up at him, eyes clear and calm. "Thank you," is all Arumat can think to say.

Faize nods. "Sir," he says.

Arumat strips out of his trousers, and he doesn't miss the way Faize watches him, the way Faize's eyes go to his cock -- not nervously, the way they did those first few days, but with warmth and...something very like hunger. He reaches down, takes Faize's hand to help him up and lead him to bed. This is becoming something different than he first thought it was; he offered to relieve Faize of the duty tonight and Faize chose this instead.

And he's grateful for that, more than he'd truly like to admit. Faize fits easily into his arms, slender but growing muscular, fine-featured but so proud. Arumat kisses him, slowly, deeply, tasting his mouth, and he makes a low sound in his throat when Faize reaches up to work both hands into his hair and hold on.

He releases Faize's mouth, pulls back enough to look at him; there's a flush rising on Faize's cheeks, but this time, Arumat is fairly sure it has nothing to do with embarrassment. "Let me look at you," Arumat says, leaning back.

That does deepen the flush, but Faize smiles, all the same. "Of course," he says. He relaxes, lying back across Arumat's bed, still thoese steady, deliberate actions. Following orders as though he treats them seriously, as though he wants to be sure he's doing well.

This month of training has been good for him; there is clean muscle visible in his arms and chest where he was too slender before. His legs are sleeker, stronger, even marked with Nadra's bruises from the advanced rapier training he's proven himself worthy to undertake.

Arumat reaches down and strokes Faize's thigh, brushing fingertips over the marks. "If they cause you trouble," he says, "that can be fixed. We have plenty of first aid preparations -- you could have them healed before your comrades --"

"I don't need that," Faize says. He places his hand over Arumat's, squeezing his fingers tight. "Thank you, sir. But you were right. It doesn't matter what they think, and healing these wouldn't stop the rumors in any case." He smiles, a tiny spark of wildness creeping into the expression despite his control. "If I am learning to be a warrior of the Thirteenth, then I will not complain of every petty little scrape and bruise. We are -- more ferocious than that, are we not?"

"Yes," Arumat says, taking Faize's hand and lifting it to his lips. "Yes, we are."

He shifts to kneel between Faize's thighs, and Faize spreads his legs further to encourage him. Arumat strokes the soft skin of Faize's thighs; the bruises vary, from blue-black marks he probably earned today to faded yellow blossoms nearly gone. Faize shivers at Arumat's touch, and his breath catches in his throat.

Arumat leans down to press his lips to one of the marks, and Faize swallows a shocked moan. Arumat closes his eyes for a moment, simply to clear his own mind. He kisses Faize again, slowly, lingering open-mouthed over the bruises, working his way slowly up Faize's thighs.

"Oh," Faize says, soft and breathy, and then makes a needy sound that isn't a word at all when Arumat reaches the taut arch of tendon at the very top of his thigh, the soft crease leading into his groin. His cock is stiff and flushed, foreskin drawn back, and he trembles at Arumat's breath exhaled against it. "Please," he says, and shakes his head. "Sir, I --"

Arumat licks his lips and leans down again to take Faize's cock in his mouth. He has little practice at this, little certainty of his own skill, but he surprises himself with _wanting_ to, with wanting Faize to be pleased -- and it feels as though he's accomplishing that, at least, as Faize shivers and arches toward his mouth, smooth and stiff against his tongue, moaning wordless need.

There is a rhythm to this, like anything else; Arumat slows, pays close attention to the ways Faize reacts, teaches himself how to take it deeper and make the motion easy. It's...hypnotic, in a way, the slow repetitive motion. Faize's hand rests on his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle there and making his need plain. Arumat brings one hand up between Faize's thighs to stroke his balls, to tease there gently; when he reaches back slightly, stroking the length of his perineum, Faize arches into his mouth.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, that -- please," and before Arumat can pull back to tell him to ask more clearly for what he wants, he's reaching for the oil on the bedside table, fumbling with the bottle and holding it out for Arumat to take. That's clear enough, isn't it?

Arumat uncorks the bottle and oils his fingers, massaging slowly, easing his way into Faize without raising his head. The noises Faize makes are almost unbearably sweet, needy and honest, and he rocks his hips as though he can't choose whether to push toward Arumat's hand or his mouth. Arumat aches with wanting him --

But when Faize clutches tighter at his shoulder and stammers, "Please, I -- I'm so -- if y-you don't s-stop, I'll --" he realizes he has no intention of stopping, not until he's done this right. He moans around the length of Faize's cock but doesn't pull back, keeps up the same steady motion with both his mouth and his fingers, and the trembling in Faize's thighs grows more obvious, more severe, until at last he rocks up nearly hard enough to choke and spills his seed in Arumat's mouth.

 _Then_ Arumat lets go, swallowing and pulling back to look at him. Faize looks stunned, staring at him, eyes wide. "Thank you," he says. "Thank you, captain."

Arumat shakes his head. "You're welcome," he says. He feels awkward being thanked for it. "I wanted to. It's not -- it's not that strange, is it?"

Faize looks down. "Perhaps not," he says. "Still, I -- it felt wonderful. Thank you." He reaches for Arumat as if he'd pull him down. "I-I'd like -- should I do the same?"

"I certainly wouldn't complain," Arumat says. "Unless you had something else in mind?"

"I --" Faize shrugs one shoulder, looks down; it's become almost strange to see him behave so hesitantly. "I would...still like to have you here," he says, and clenches deliberately around Arumat's fingers.

Arumat's cock aches, and his breath stutters in his throat. "Then I can hardly refuse," he says. Faize _wants_ him to. He won't let himself think too hard on that.

He withdraws his fingers carefully, oiling his cock, then lies back on the bed and beckons for Faize to come to him. "Here," he says. "Come take what you want."

Faize blushes again, but the look in his eyes is warm with excitement, with...Arumat should not try so hard to read meaning into it. "Thank you, captain," Faize says. He throws a leg over Arumat's waist and settles himself there, in Arumat's lap, reaching down to steady Arumat's cock so he can take it in.

He feels wonderful, opening smoothly, hot and slick and just tight enough. His eyes flutter closed, and he lets his breath out in a slow, pleased sigh. For him to seek this out, even when he's already satisfied -- Arumat isn't sure what he's done to deserve such luxury.

But this is no time to complain of his good fortune. He curls his hands around Faize's thighs to steady him and rocks up, slowly, savoring the easy glide and the way the thrust seems to ripple up through Faize's spine and make his whole body move. He's unbearably beautiful. At first he simply moves with Arumat, letting himself be led, letting himself be taken -- but he hadn't even fully relaxed after his own climax, and as Arumat takes him he's stiffening again, without even a hand on him.

His own hand strays down his belly, as though he'd take himself in hand; Arumat gets there before him, curling a hand around his cock to stroke. Faize moans, pushing himself down harder into Arumat's lap, spreading his thighs as he rocks down. "Please, sir," he says, "please, yes."

"Yes," Arumat echoes. "Gods. Yes." He holds still as best he can, and lets Faize set the pace he wants; it's dizzying, the luxury of pure pleasure as Faize -- as Faize enjoys his cock, and that thought nearly undoes him on its own. "You're ready again," Arumat says, hoarse.

Faize nods. "Nearly," he says, his voice shaky. "It's good. I -- I want to, like this."

"I want you to," Arumat says fervently. He does his best to wait, to make himself draw this out. It helps, some small bit, that Faize sets a slow pace, scarcely rising off him -- but knowing that Faize wants him there, wants him deep, wants the full length of his cock -- Arumat bites his lip, his breath ragged, and picks up the pace of his strokes. "I want you to," he says again. "I want to feel you come."

"C-captain," Faize says, clutching at Arumat's arm for balance, little tremors wracking him before he bows over Arumat's lap and shivers into another climax. The rippling tightness of him is too much to bear, and Arumat is not far behind, pushing up into him and shuddering with release.

When Arumat opens his eyes, Faize is smiling at him, soft and giddy. His skin is flushed with pleasure, sheened lightly with sweat. "Thank you, sir," he says. "I've been -- very selfish tonight, and you've indulged me so much."

"If this was selfishness, then it's hardly the vice people claim it is," Arumat says. He slides his hands under Faize's thighs to steady him so Faize can lift himself free -- and then doesn't quite let go, and Faize takes that for the invitation it is, easing down to lie curled against Arumat's side and rest his head on Arumat's shoulder. Arumat tilts his head up with a careful hand to be able to meet his eyes. "Thank _you_ ," he says. He kisses Faize slowly, thoroughly, savoring the soft welcome of his mouth. And Faize has seemed so willing, so...so happy to be here, that in the wake of the kiss Arumat says, "You're welcome to stay the night, if you'd like to."

Faize drapes an arm across his chest and sighs in contentment. "Yes," he says. "I'd like to very much."

*

The turning of seasons on Eldar is truly only an event of cultural significance; according to the histories, it used to imply changes in the weather, a shift from warm to cold, from dry to wet, or the reverse. Those days are long gone, though. Now, the seasons simply mark time for the inhabitants of the Core.

At the midwinter turn, there is a formal ball, the first the year's cadets will attend following their introduction to adult responsibility and role. They will attend in the costumes of their new professions, and their elders will provide a place for them to celebrate. The rest of the adults will be there, but the focus of the midwinter ball is really the welcome for the new cadets, who've served out a quarter of their year and are beginning to adjust to their new circumstances.

There is also, of course, the custom -- unofficial, but so common it might as well be in the rules -- of the cadets forming liaisons of their own at midwinter. They've had enough time, learned enough of both skill and confidence, that some of them are impatient to show off their talent to their comrades.

Faize can't decide whether he's interested in that aspect or not. Certainly he's curious, at times, about how it would feel to bed someone else; how much of what he's felt when he's with Arumat is because his captain is so exceptional, and how much is simply the delight of sharing those pleasures with anyone? He'll likely have the chance to get that question answered, should he decide he wants it. He's seen the way the others watch him lately; the strength his training has given him is evident, and he's wearing it well -- it is immodest to think so, but he cannot entirely help himself.

And the night of the ball will be his first occasion to wear the colors of the Thirteenth in public; he's not in the least hesitant about looking forward to that. The costume made for him is mostly white, like Nadra's, but trimmed in deep burgundy and decorated with the sword emblem of their banners. He likes the look of it, crisp and elegant. Imposing. When has he ever looked _imposing_?

All the cadets turn out looking their best on the night of the ball, of course. They wear the finest fabrics they have, the bold colors of their new houses; Zayn, apprenticed to the artificers' guild, has made himself quite popular in the last week by selling cuffs and brooches and ear-guards he fashioned in the preceding month. The high ceiling of the grand ballroom sparkles as if starlit, and the leaders of Eldar's next generation are all there.

Some of the others take to the dancing immediately, but Faize hangs back. Their superiors are here as well, of course, to celebrate them, and Faize finds himself watching the crowd, looking for his captain. Arumat would have to cut a striking figure, between his height and the shock-silver of his hair among all this color, but at first Faize doesn't see him anywhere. He frowns. Has Arumat decided not to attend? Faize supposes he shouldn't be surprised; he knows how little patience Arumat has with civilian pageantry, and how aware he is of the chilling effect his presence has. But still --

No, there he is, finally, with Nadra and Malik flanking him like an honor guard as he walks in, sunrise red and peacock blue on either side of his ghost white. Faize feels something ease behind his ribs, and then feels silly for it; he stops himself from going to meet them with an effort. He sees them every day! Shouldn't he spend this evening with the friends he's barely had time for since his tempering year began?

He hesitates, though, standing by the edge of the room and watching the others rather than going to dance himself. His year-mates seem to be enjoying themselves -- Iska, usually one of the quieter of the group, is laughing in delight as a journeyman in shipwright's blues spins him across the floor; Dima bows to the girl who's given her this last dance and pounces on Tarik, dragging him out onto the floor with her.

Left to his own devices, Faize might spend most of the evening just observing, but he realizes shortly that the decision is about to be taken out of his hands. Nadra has left Arumat and Malik on the far side of the room and is making her way across the floor, weaving gracefully through the dancers toward him. There isn't anywhere to go, is there?

"You look like you're planning an escape route already," she says by way of greeting when she reaches him. "Won't be easy, I don't think."

Faize shakes his head, trying for a smile. "No. This isn't very defensible terrain, is it?"

Nadra smiles. "Why fight on the defensive in the first place?" she says. She holds out her hand. "That's not where the glory lies."

"I don't really know how to dance," Faize says, without much hope that it'll dissuade her.

"You'll pick it up quickly," Nadra promises. "It's not so hard as all that."

He can do this gracefully or under protest, Faize thinks. Like any other challenge of this year. He gives Nadra his hand. "I would be grateful for your instruction, lieutenant."

Nadra laughs. "I'm not the one the captain would assign this lesson to," she says, but she leads Faize out onto the floor anyway. She shows him where to put his hands, and gives him a moment to get a sense for the beat of the music, and then they sweep into the current of the dance.

It turns out that it truly isn't so difficult after all -- it's just another way of moving in sync with another person, and Faize has spent the last season practicing that. The comparison brings a little heat to his cheeks, but it's not so bad. Certainly he feels more like he belongs here now that he's joined the dancers.

"If not you," Faize says, once he has a decent sense of the steps, "then who? Malik?"

Nadra nods. "You should ask him for a dance, if your year-mates don't steal you for the rest of the evening," she says.

"Perhaps I will," Faize says. He glances across the floor and catches Arumat's eyes for a moment before Arumat looks away. "What about the captain?"

"Wild horses couldn't drag him out to dance," Nadra says, "though sometimes Malik does give it a try."

The idea of Malik dancing with Arumat, close like this, makes Faize's cheeks heat again, makes him...oddly distressed. It isn't any of his business, is it? Arumat is his captain, not his bondmate. He's in no position to take that kind of possessive interest in anyone, so early in his life.

"You could ask him yourself, you know," Nadra says. "Maybe he'd make an exception for you."

Faize laughs, and sounds as nervous as he feels, to his dismay. "I'd hate to trouble him," he says. When he glances back toward Arumat again, he thinks he can see signs of Arumat's discomfort at being here. The captain scowls almost all the time, yes, but his posture isn't always so tense.

Nadra hums thoughtfully, and there's something unsettlingly intimate about _that_ , too, the low timbre of her voice right by his ear. "You might be right," she says. "He is more stubborn than you are, isn't he?"

"I can be stubborn!" Faize insists, and that makes Nadra laugh again.

"That's what we're counting on," she says, and then the music comes to a lull before Faize can ask her what she means by that. Nadra releases him, steps back, and bows. "Thank you for the dance," she says. "Enjoy your evening."

He's tempted for a moment to chase after her, to demand that she explain that last cryptic statement; it hardly seems fair to leave him with something like that and then disappear. But it will keep, won't it? He's learning to choose his battles, and learning to choose the circumstances for them, as he practices with his division -- and he's fairly certain that the night of the ball is no time for him to effectively pin down any of his superiors to demand answers from them.

Besides, it does turn out that he has plenty of options for dancing partners, once he looks around. He takes a turn with Dima next, letting her have the exuberant, playful lead; after her dance he asks Zayn, who looks a bit surprised but feels good in Faize's arms all the same once he lets himself relax. He even tries a dance with Badir, though he didn't think that would be a good idea and his instincts turn out to be right. Subtlety is lost on Badir in all arenas, he concludes.

He does take a turn with Malik, about halfway through the evening -- Malik has barely sat out one dance the entire evening, as best Faize can tell, and once they're moving together it's easy to see why: he's graceful and demanding both at once, attentive in a way that's surprisingly flattering. Unlike Nadra, he seems to have little use for conversation in the midst of a dance, and distracts Faize with more complicated steps any time Faize tries to ask him questions. It's maddening and enjoyable both at once, and only with effort does Faize manage to not look for Arumat when Malik releases him at song's end.

By the time the evening grows late, the cadets are beginning to form more obvious pairs -- not changing partners anymore, but holding close to each other, murmuring conversation; out of the corner of his eye, Faize catches Dima kissing the girl she's befriended. It's coming close to time, isn't it? He should decide what he wants.

His partner now is Tarik, with whom at least he always got along decently enough. Tarik's engineer favored subtle colors; his hair is a soft aquamarine, braided now at his nape, and his eyes a subdued green. He's handsome in the way they all are, and he's kind; is that enough? Faize doesn't know what he wants to say, at first, worries until he realizes at once that Tarik is nervous, too: that his eyes are wide and his shoulders taut, watching Faize for cues.

"Is something the matter?" Faize asks him, squeezing his hand.

Tarik shakes his head. "No," he says. "I mean, I -- not so far as I know." He smiles awkwardly. "It's -- a bit intimidating, you know. Being at this point of the evening, with you."

Faize raises an eyebrow. "Intimidating?" he says. "But you know me. We've known each other for years. You've nothing to worry about."

"You're...different now," Tarik says. "And the company you keep is, well." He looks down, and his steps falter slightly. "What if it made him angry, for you to have a liaison tonight?"

Faize sputters. "He wouldn't -- it's not as though --" He looks across the room toward Arumat again, as he's been doing perhaps too often over the course of the evening; he finds Arumat watching him again -- still? -- but when their eyes meet, Arumat nods once. "He isn't going to be angry," Faize says, and then his stomach clenches unpleasantly as he watches Arumat turn away and start toward the far door. "I don't know what the others are saying about us, but it's...it's not as though he's claimed me as property, or anything."

"I'm sorry," Tarik says. He recovers his steps in the dance, and begins to move again. "I didn't mean to give offense."

"You didn't," Faize insists. He turns them on the next measure, so he won't be able to watch the door and watch Arumat leave. "It's -- it's all been far more complicated than I was expecting before we had our assignments. I still don't always feel like I know what I'm doing." He pulls back slightly so he can smile at Tarik, and Tarik smiles back, less nervous this time.

"Then -- if it's all right," Tarik says. He watches Faize's face like he needs a cue.

Faize nods, and leans in to kiss him. Gently, slowly, still entirely too mindful of the others in the room. Tarik shivers, and his hand closes tighter on Faize's. "Maybe," Faize says, "maybe we should leave?"

"I think so," Tarik says.

Faize leads the way, still holding Tarik's hand, out of the ballroom and into the park beyond. The night air is damp, despite the dome's best efforts at climate control, and smells of fresh grass and blossoms. Going back to the barracks would be just as awkward as staying in the ballroom, most likely; some of the other cadets will already be there, likely enjoying each other, but if people are gossiping about Faize's particular circumstances already, then the last thing he wants is to have to answer questions about what he's doing.

"Shall we go for a walk?" he suggests instead.

Tarik nods. "That sounds -- good," he says. He's probably in no hurry to give the others anything to gossip about, either.

The paths through the park wind through gentle slopes and past banks of thick greenery; there are plenty of places where it would be easy to stop and not be observed. At one point, as they pass a fountain backed by a carved relief, there's breathless laughter in the dark that Faize would swear is Iska's; he and Tarik hurry on so they don't interrupt.

They stop at a little gazebo overlooking a reflecting pool, the stars shining in clear, still water. Faize turns to Tarik, takes a deep breath. He tries to find words, and doesn't know what to say.

"Yes," Tarik says. His eyes are dark, out here, the green almost vanished. "Me too."

Faize laughs nervously. "Is it awful to say I'm glad?" he asks. He steps closer, into Tarik's arms, and it's strange to embrace someone so close to his own size. He leans in for a second kiss, and Tarik meets him, eyes fluttering closed. Tarik's mouth is soft and sweet, tongue teasing gently against Faize's, and his hands trace slow patterns along Faize's back. It's...pleasant, isn't it? Faize pushes, deepening the kiss, holding tighter -- and Tarik tenses against him, makes a soft, pleading sound that might be encouragement but might be panic just as easily.

That isn't what Faize wants. He doesn't want to be intimidating at a time like this, doesn't want to make his partner nervous. He thinks of Arumat turning away, can't help it, and knows -- _this_ isn't what he wants. Perhaps he's going about this all wrong; he's been told as often as any of them that a tempering partnership is not the same thing as a romance. But still --

He pulls back from the kiss. "Tarik," he says. "I'm sorry, but I -- I don't think I can...."

"I-It's fine," Tarik says, fumbling for his hand, squeezing it. He sounds relieved. "It's fine."

"Thank you," Faize says. That, somehow, makes it easier to simply embrace Tarik -- as a comrade, not as a bedmate. "Should we head back?"

"Let's," Tarik says.

Failing to do what's expected of him, Faize thinks, has never left him feeling such relief.

*

As winter turns to spring, Arumat adjusts his and Faize's schedules again to allow Faize more time of his own. They're making decent progress, and there are still plenty of other responsibilities for him to look after; if he doesn't need to supervise Faize's every lesson, so much the better. And if Faize is using some of that new free time for recreational pursuits rather than training -- well. From everything Arumat can gather, that's normal. Expected, as far as he can tell from the way other people talk about it. It's probably for the best that Faize form other attachments; he'll outlive Arumat easily, after all. The boy Faize chose appears to be decent enough, for a civilian, at least. And despite their relationship, he still attends Arumat's quarters in the evening with no show of ill will or reluctance.

Truthfully, Arumat feels he's long exhausted whatever instruction he had to offer in that arena. He is no expert lover, and had no tempering year of his own to teach him the finer points. It's a farce, to continue to pretend that he is providing anything that Faize couldn't learn more easily from someone else.

One of these days he'll actually say so, actually tell Faize he doesn't need to keep coming back. He's been considering it almost since the midwinter ball, but selfishness keeps him quiet. If Faize doesn't mind -- if Faize seems content -- then Arumat finds it difficult to turn him away, no matter how much more courteous it would be.

It's a blessing, at any rate, to have Faize's company to look forward to in the evenings; Arumat's afternoons are taken up with logistics, with the dull but necessary planning stages for a campaign that will begin this summer. He reviews troop reports and supply statistics with his lieutenants, looks at the progress the shipwrights have made on the new _Rednuht_ models, charts the course they expect to take with their exploration. Three quarters of the planning will be completely useless when their first teams go afield and have to react to changing conditions, but it's impossible to know in advance which quarter will turn out to be vital.

At the end of one of those endless meetings, Malik stays behind when the others file out of the briefing room. Arumat sighs. "Something I missed?" he says.

Malik shakes his head. "We should be asking you that," he says. "You're distracted. Something else going on with this campaign? Something we're not taking into account?"

Arumat snorts, shaking his head. "Nothing that serious," he says. He ducks out of the meeting room and Malik follows him, instead of letting him just walk away from the question. Neither of his lieutenants are that easy to get rid of. "It's personal, and not something you need to worry about."

"How long have we fought together?" Malik asks, lengthening his stride to keep up when Arumat won't slow down for him. "I'll worry without your leave, captain."

"You would," Arumat says, and does slow; he can count on them, at the least. "Perhaps I should be more attentive to my own meditations, if I'm bringing my petty troubles to meetings with me."

"Perhaps," Malik says. "But in the meantime, you should tell me what's the matter, and see if we can't find a strategy to handle it."

"As if you aren't already doing more than your share," Arumat says. "Both of you." If they're going to have this conversation, he doesn't want to take it anyplace public; he turns toward the elevator so they can head up to his private rooms.

Malik follows him without missing a beat. Usually, Arumat scoffs at the superstitious claims that an individual's secondary symbological element betrays something about the individual's personality, but Malik's capacity for fluid, untroubled adjustment gives the idea more plausibility than most.

"So," Malik says when the door to Arumat's rooms closes behind them, "tell me what's bothering you." The other aspect to water that he embodies, of course, is persistence: given time, water wears down the resistance even of stone.

Arumat hesitates, even though he's already chosen to go through with this. "It's...stressful, to be responsible for his tempering year," he says eventually.

"Stressful?" Malik says, raising an eyebrow. "That's not how it seemed for the first season or so. I'd thought he was good for you."

Arumat shakes his head. "He is. He's -- I'm...certainly not complaining of my lot. The Hive has been very generous to give me the opportunity." He pushes back the curtains over his window, looks out at the courtyard, the dim red light that washes everything. "But you know my circumstances," he says. He is one of the rare cases where a random-bred citizen from outside the core, from the enlisted ranks, was elevated to leadership based on his performance; he was not designed nor trained for the role he has assumed now.

"I do," Malik says. "You didn't go through the same thing yourself, so you feel...?"

"Unfit," Arumat says. There's a twinge between his shoulderblades as he says it, an uncomfortable sense of relief; he's been carrying that word around since the first of the year. "I'm not qualified to be so personally responsible for him."

"Afraid I have to disagree," Malik says. "You've taken his needs seriously, given him direction and taught him how to fend for himself. You're doing all we're supposed to do."

Arumat nods stiffly. "I don't want to fail him," he says. "He is -- I admire his dedication, and I think he will do well in his career. He's talented, and driven, and --" he cuts himself off before he can go further; he's not here to give Malik a list of Faize's virtues. He's sure Malik has seen them as well. "I'm grateful for all the help that you and Nadra have given me. I...don't want to impose on you further, or perhaps I would ask something more."

Malik pretends to be studying the mementos on the far wall, his hands clasped behind his back. "If you're asking, I'm free to refuse, so perhaps you should go ahead," he says.

"Semantics," Arumat says, but Malik doesn't answer that, only waits. Eventually Arumat makes himself say it: "I think you'd be more qualified to take him to bed."

"What?" Malik says, rounding on him.

Arumat shrugs, staring resolutely out the window. "It's no secret how well liked you are." Malik has had his share of liaisons outside the Thirteenth, even, despite the reputation that keeps most of them isolated. "I would not see Faize miss out due to my handicap. Particularly...now that he has a lover to please."

"He -- who?" Malik asks.

"Tarik Adel Saleos, of the architects' guild," Arumat says. How can that come as a surprise?

When he glances over, Malik is shaking his head, smiling. "He's not bedding Tarik. He's made a friend, that's all."

Arumat's instinctive reaction is to sag in relief, and he tenses against it. "How are you so sure?"

"Because I talk to him," Malik says. He crosses the room to stand by the window with Arumat, close enough that were he Faize -- or were Arumat anyone else -- it would feel intimate. "This self-doubt isn't like you, captain. Be logical. What does the evidence actually suggest?"

"That Faize is...content," Arumat says slowly.

Malik rolls his eyes. "Content? Try _completely taken with you_. He comes to me and Nadra for extra lessons in his free time so he can make you proud. I've no doubt he'd bed me if you told him to, but we'd both be wondering why in hells you thought it was a good idea."

It's too easy. It's too comforting. It's the sort of thing that happens to someone else. "He shouldn't be so willing to settle," Arumat says. _He shouldn't let himself be smitten with someone who has so little time._ "He deserves better. He should have a partner who's skilled, who --"

"Captain," Malik says, sharp enough to be a reproach. He sighs. "Look, the techniques a cadet learns in bed are the least important part. People are too particular, like being touched in too many different ways. There's no secret tactic that works with everyone. What really matters -- what a good mentor needs to demonstrate -- is _attentiveness_. Pay attention to what he wants and show him that it's important to do that, and you'll be doing as well for him as anyone can." He pauses a moment. "I can tell you right now, what he wants isn't me."

Arumat stares at Malik for a long moment. "I...need time to think about this," he says at last.

Malik nods. "Ask him straight out, if the evidence isn't clear enough for you," he says. "But make sure you listen to what he tells you." He salutes. "See you at dinner, captain."

"Right," Arumat says. He nods. "Thank you."

*

Tarik is already there, waiting for him, by the time Faize arrives at their table overlooking the plaza. Often he's the first one there; when Faize gets out of his afternoon training he usually needs time to bathe before he feels fit for company. But Tarik always insists he doesn't mind waiting -- usually he has some serious-looking reading to do -- so Faize tries not to feel too guilty for that.

"More of the Arteros?" Faize asks as he sits down.

Tarik nods, setting aside the datapad he'd been reading from. "We're looking at a lot of theoretical things lately," he says. "Which is where all the interesting parts are happening, of course -- Eldar's so built up already, the great projects for our generation will have to happen off-world."

"Maybe you'll design the base I work out of," Faize says. It's true for the military, too -- the homeworld is the past; colonization is the future.

"I hope not," Tarik says, but he smiles. "Then you'll complain that I'm worrying too much about making it attractive instead of defensible."

Faize smiles back. "I have every confidence in your ability to do both," he says. "You won't let me down, will you?"

"Landing contracts with the Thirteenth before I'm done my tempering year," Tarik says, shaking his head. "I'm not sure whether the rest of my team will envy or pity me."

"They probably don't know themselves," Faize says. Occasionally one of the people passing by -- cadets and full adults alike -- will spare them a surprised glance; Faize wears his division colors regularly now that he's passed half the year with them, and that often seems to unnerve people. Well, let them worry if they must. He's coming to see why civilians' nervousness makes Arumat roll his eyes and Nadra snort in derision.

He takes out his chess board and opens it, keying the passcode to restore the game they were in the middle of yesterday. They're about halfway through this game, Tarik's fortifications solidifying and Faize's troops marshaling their attack -- probably they'll finish the game today or tomorrow, depending on how distracted they get this afternoon.

"Your move, wasn't it?" Tarik says.

The cursor is blinking on Faize's side. He nods. "How have you been lately, anyway?" he asks to buy himself a little time. "I haven't heard much about how you're doing recently."

"Not much to tell, I don't think," Tarik says. "Apart from the plans for the colony station, I mean." Faize reaches for a pawn, and Tarik adds, "Really, I'm looking forward to the whole thing being over. Evening lessons especially."

Faize stops. "Is something wrong?" he says. He sits back, looks up at Tarik's face. "Master Emros isn't mistreating you, is he?"

"Ah, no, it's nothing like that," Tarik says. "Nothing so dramatic." He shakes his head. "I'm not terribly interested, is all. And maybe finding someone else would change that, but I don't know."

"That's," Faize says, and doesn't know how to continue.

"It's not much to complain of, I know," Tarik says. "We've all had worse chores."

"I can't imagine it being a chore," Faize says, before he catches himself. "I'm sorry, I'm being -- that's thoughtless of me. I can imagine it. And I'm sorry you're having a bad time of it. I just -- with Arumat, I --" His face heats. "It's...very different."

"You got luckier than any of us would have expected," Tarik says; his smile is faintly rueful.

Faize nods. "I must have," he says. He looks at the board again, but he's not seeing the moves he needs to make. It takes a depressingly short time for his forces to be torn apart. By the time they're interrupted, a pair of shadows falling across the board, he's grateful for the reprieve -- at least until he looks up.

"That's a sorry state for the troops," Nadra says, and though she's smiling Faize believes she means it, too.

"Maybe we've missed an opportunity," Malik says. He winks at Tarik. "Possibly there's a good strategic mind going to waste in the civilian core."

Tarik blushes pink. "N-no, I -- it's not usually like this."

"I've been...distracted," Faize says. He fidgets nervously, resisting the urge to apologize just in case. "Have I missed an appointment?"

Malik grins. "Taking advantage of your opponent's distraction is just good sense," he says to Tarik, and then to Faize, "You haven't. But when you're through here, we'd like a chance to talk with you."

"Ah," Faize says. It must be important, or they wouldn't both come find him during his free time. He's losing terribly anyway. "I resign, then," he says. He keys the code in on his side of the board, and it declares Tarik the victor. "Will you -- will you be horribly disappointed in me if I leave?"

Tarik shakes his head. "It's all right," he says. "I did want to get through the rest of that theory stuff by tomorrow. I'll see you later on."

Faize nods. "Right," he says. "I'll look for you."

He gets up, and follows the lieutenants away from the courtyard, back toward the Thirteenth's private facilities. They don't say anything, just march along in silence, and that makes him more nervous than anything else. He tries to think of a way to ask what the matter is, to determine whether he's in trouble, something, but there aren't any good ways to phrase it.

Inside, they head for the little symbology training arena where Faize has his lessons with Malik. When they get inside and the lights have come up, Nadra keys a lock code into the door.

She takes a deep breath as if she'd speak, and then only sighs. She looks at Malik.

Malik looks at the ceiling, then at Faize. "You're close with the captain, aren't you?" he says.

"Close?" Faize says, but that's a stalling tactic. "Yes. Yes, he -- he's very important to me."

"Has he talked to you about his condition?" Malik asks.

Faize goes very still. This is worse than being in trouble. "His condition?"

"The captain wasn't built the way we were," Nadra says. "But he wasn't satisfied to be second-best, either. He had some modification done when he was about your age, maybe younger -- he tries not to talk about it, but it's part of what left him the way he is now."

"Incredible, you mean," Faize says. "More of a pure warrior than any of us."

Malik smiles gently. "That's one way to say it, yes." He looks away again. "Unfortunately, it was...an experimental procedure. It's not an easy thing to do, refitting an existing system to do things it wasn't meant to. Especially a system as delicate as a living body."

"Then," Faize says, watching them nervously. This can't be going anywhere good.

"The strain of it is going to kill him," Nadra says. "If he goes on like he has been, it'll kill him young."

Faize feels sick. He curls his fingers in the fabric of his trousers just for something to hold onto. "That's -- that can't -- we have to _do_ something, then," he says. "C-can't the engineers do anything for him?"

"Maybe," Malik says.

"When they first realized what they'd done to him, they couldn't," Nadra says. "Or they could, but only at the cost of undoing all the work that had been done before."

"And leaving him...powerless," Faize says. His stomach knots. That would be a terrible choice to ask anyone to make, but to ask it of Arumat, when being a warrior defines him --

"Against his own stubbornness, maybe," Nadra says. She paces, her heels sharp against the floor.

"Sir?" Faize says.

Malik runs his fingers through his hair, tugs at it absently. "That was years ago," he says. "He was a test case. The procedures he went through have been refined, the problems studied, new therapies developed to compensate."

Think logically about this, Faize tells himself. Be reasonable. They must have a purpose in telling him, but he can't make himself stay calm. "Why hasn't he done anything about it?" His voice cracks.

"Ask him," Nadra says. She stops, turns to look Faize in the eyes. "Or better yet, tell him he can do better. He might listen to you."

"He -- he won't take your advice?" Faize asks. That turns the worry to _anger_ , quick and hot.

Malik shakes his head. "Avoids the subject, mostly," he says. "Sometimes I think you'd have to pin him down to make him listen."

Faize has been with the Thirteenth long enough to know a challenge when he hears one. "Then maybe I will," he says.

*

The sound of footsteps in the hallway, hurried and forceful, makes Arumat look up. He takes a breath, expecting the knock, prepared to tell the door to open -- but there's no knock, the door simply hissing back as Faize finally makes use of the permission Arumat coded in for him months ago.

He looks as though he's going to battle, fierce and proud, eyes blazing. He strides across the room purposefully, eyes locked with Arumat's, a challenge. It should be a ridiculous idea, Arumat's own cadet coming to challenge him, unarmed and physically outmatched, but instead he's breathtaking.

"Faize," Arumat says, pushing back his chair, and before he can rise Faize is straddling his lap.

"Captain," Faize says -- breathless, like he was running to get here, like he's letting adrenaline carry him -- and kisses Arumat without saying anything more. The kiss is rough and demanding, Faize's teeth scraping Arumat's lip, his tongue pressing into Arumat's mouth. He leans into it with his whole body, insistent, hungry; Arumat's cock stiffens so fast it aches.

He tries to pull back enough to ask what's brought this on, to say something, _anything_ , about how good it feels, but Faize is relentless, and won't give up his mouth. He's bringing his morning lessons to bed with him, Arumat thinks, and that idea is suddenly, overwhelmingly appealing. Arumat hums into his mouth, wraps both arms around Faize's slender body to pull him closer.

Faize responds by tugging at the buckles of his pauldrons, unfastening them and then pushing them away, over the back of his chair, to clatter to the floor. His hands are warm against Arumat's skin, sliding up chest and shoulders and then -- delicately, in contrast to the assault of the kiss -- up either side of Arumat's neck to reach the hammered gold covers over his ears.

Having Faize remove them is intimate enough to make Arumat shiver on its own; when his fingertips brush the bared skin beneath, it drags a moan from Arumat's throat. Faize pulls back from the kiss, eyes wide, bare rims of violet around his pupils. "Here?" he says, cradling Arumat's ears in both hands and running his thumbs along the edges.

" _Yes_ ," Arumat says, bucking under him, aching for touch. He reaches for the clasps of Faize's jacket, fumbling them open -- there should be more bare skin between them. Faize shrugs, lets Arumat push off his jacket and the thin shirt beneath it, and then steadies himself with a hand on Arumat's shoulder as he leans in to take Arumat's earlobe between his teeth.

It's like a bolt of lightning down Arumat's spine, and the sound he makes is lost and ragged, desperate. He clings to Faize, grinding up against him, and Faize laughs breathlessly against his neck.

"Yes," Faize whispers, "yes," and traces the shell of Arumat's ear with his tongue, silencing any reply Arumat could have made.

For a moment all he can stand to do is _feel_ this, but when he recovers from the intensity of it for long enough, Arumat turns his attention to Faize's trousers, then his own. Bared skin, now, here; he doesn't want to let Faize go for long enough to make it over to bed.

He leans in to bite at Faize's throat -- gently at first, but when Faize moans for him, sweet and low, he tries biting a little harder. Faize snarls a hand in Arumat's hair and tightens his grip, pulling: it's pain, but it's like the best pain of a friendly match, exciting, encouraging more. Arumat growls, rakes his nails down Faize's back, and Faize arches toward him with a wordless plea and a roll of his hips.

When Arumat leans forward enough to press their cocks together, to catch them both in one hand, Faize gets his free hand around to Arumat's back and scores his nails downward, hard. They catch against scars and leave bright, searing lines against unmarked skin, and Arumat's cock jumps. Faize must feel that against his own, because it makes his breath hitch, ragged, and then makes him push into Arumat's hand.

"Yes -- captain," he says. "Please, please yes."

"Then don't stop," Arumat answers -- as though either of them is in any danger of that. He strokes them both, and Faize bites his earlobe again, teeth closing carefully but mercilessly, tugging. The sensations threaten to overwhelm him, the combination heady and unfamiliar but so potent -- why have they not been doing this before? Faize rakes another set of stripes down his back and Arumat shudders, already close. "Yes," he says, barely able to get words out even that much, "Faize -- yes," and Faize nods, clinging tight to him, hips rocking -- they're both close, goaded on by the little shocks of pain, taut and shivering -- and Arumat thinks he comes first, but barely; Faize follows him so closely there's nearly no difference, back arched and lips parted, beautiful.

Faize slumps against him in a boneless, shivering heap, and Arumat strokes his back gently, slowly. He almost wants to ask what brought that on, but holds his tongue; it's enough that Faize _wanted_ to, that he came here and asked for -- _demanded_ \-- this as though he couldn't resist. It's a strange feeling, to be wanted like that, in a situation like this. Arumat turns his head and breathes in the warmth of Faize's hair, lets himself bask in this moment.

"We should clean up," he says eventually; their come is cooling on his belly, trickling down his skin, uncomfortable.

"Yes, sir," Faize says, but he doesn't move. Arumat is almost ready to ask if something is wrong when Faize says, "Permission to speak freely, captain?"

"Of course," Arumat says; he nearly says _always_ , and stops himself barely in time. That's infatuation speaking, and not a standard he'd reasonably be able to maintain outside his rooms.

Faize pulls back enough to meet his eyes, and he looks deadly serious, frowning. "You're an _idiot_ ," he says hotly. "Sir."

Arumat flinches in sheer surprise. "What?" he says. What would make Faize -- how _dare_ Faize --

"Did you think I wouldn't ever find out?" Faize says. "Did you think it wouldn't matter to me?" For a moment Arumat is lost, wondering what he could possibly be talking about -- what he could be doing that Faize would think is his business -- but before he can frame the question Faize goes on, "You're -- you're dying, and you didn't think to tell me?"

Arumat goes very still. "Where did -- Nadra told you," he guesses. "Or Malik."

"Both of them," Faize says. He curls both of his hands over Arumat's shoulders and holds on, as if he had the strength to physically hold Arumat still to listen to this. "Why, captain? Why would you -- why would you not care? Why would you not _do_ something about this?"

"Calm yourself," Arumat says.

Faize shakes his head. "I can't! I can't be calm about this. You -- you mean too much to me."

Arumat looks away. This wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen -- he wasn't supposed to get so attached, _Faize_ wasn't supposed to get so attached, this subject was never supposed to come up. "It's nobody's business but mine," he says. "I do what I must."

"No," Faize says. "No, that's not true. Why would you -- why would you let this defeat you? Why won't you try to find a way? The engineers are refining their skills every year; perhaps they could do something for you now that they couldn't have when you first went through your --"

"Faize," Arumat says. Nadra and Malik have told him plenty. "Stop. It's not so simple."

To his credit, Faize does at least take a moment to stop, to breathe; Arumat can watch him disciplining his response. "Why not?" he asks then, his voice level. "What am I failing to consider?"

Arumat sighs. "It wasn't a whim," he says. "It wasn't some...childish bid for power without consequence." He closes his eyes, and that brings those days far too close all over again. "I was the only survivor of an exploration crew. I'd taken out a platoon, and I failed them. We came under attack, and I didn't have the strength to lead them to victory. When I was recovered from the field," and even admitting that still chokes him, the failure of a warrior needing rescue -- "this was the only option that would allow me the strength to remain a warrior." He opens his eyes, makes himself look at Faize again. "I did it for them," he says. "For the fallen. I let myself be modified so that I would have the strength not to fail my brethren in the future. I won't turn my back on them by undoing that."

From the look in Faize's eyes, it seems he hadn't been told everything. He bows his head. "I wouldn't ask you to," he says. I would never want you to dishonor the dead." He reaches down to take Arumat's hand, holding on tight. "But I -- I don't want to lose you, either. A-And neither do any of your troops now. Please. Please, just listen to me for a minute." He takes a deep breath, brings Arumat's hand up, presses it to his heart. "It's -- it's honorable to fight in their name. To carry their honor with you. But don't forget those of us who still live, either."

"I haven't," Arumat protests instantly, reflexively, but guilt snags at him all the same.

"Nadra and Malik care for you," Faize says. "I...care for you very much, captain. I want -- I want to fight alongside you. For a very long time." He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as if in pain, then collects himself and continues: "Please -- to honor the dead _and_ the living -- don't simply give up the fight. You have resources at your command that you aren't using." He frowns stubbornly at Arumat. "You taught me better strategy than that."

"You're asking a lot," Arumat says, but he finds he doesn't resent the demand as much as he'd expected he would. There is a part of him that's...relieved, perhaps, to think there might be some other option than the future he's known for the last decade. And when he thinks of what Faize means to him, and whether Faize might truly feel the same --

Faize nods. "I am," he says. "Will you -- will you see the engineers? Find out what they can do?" He tries to smile, but he looks haunted, sorrowful. "I hate the thought of you ceding the battlefield when we still have forces in reserve."

Arumat ducks his head, and squeezes Faize's hand in his own. "You plead your case persuasively," he says.

"Then," Faize says, leaning into him.

"I...will talk with them," Arumat says. Faize embraces him instantly, fiercely, and Arumat holds on tight; there is a weight lifting from his shoulders and a tight feeling behind his ribs, both at once. He kisses Faize's temple and then his mouth, when Faize arches up to meet him -- and this was nothing he expected of this year but he is, he thinks, grateful for it.

*

Faize tugs at the cuffs of his uniform, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The ascension ceremony for the cadets is about to begin, and they're all wearing their dress uniforms, wearing the emblems of Eldar; today they'll swear themselves into the service of the Hive, devote themselves truly to the trades they've been learning for the past year. There have been times, in the past, where a cadet performed so shamefully that his mentor didn't extend the offer, but those are extremely rare; almost nobody is frivolous enough to squander the opportunity the tempering year presents. Today, Faize will take his commission.

It feels as though the second half of the year moved much faster than the first; his days became comfortably routine -- for all that parts of the routine were extremely pleasant. The end of his tempering year means the beginning of the real adventures, in any case. The Hive has issued orders for the exploration program Eldar so badly needs, and the Thirteenth will be in the vanguard when the first ships take flight. To set out with them, to explore -- to set foot on other worlds, to lead the way for the rest of their people to follow -- Faize is impatient for the chance, all the more so at a time like this, when he has little to do to distract himself.

The line begins to move, at last, and Faize holds his head high as he marches with the others into the central audience hall. The Hive is represented by figures in hologram, above the proceedings, observing them; the cadets' mentors have seats at the far side of the stage. They have an audience, others who've taken an interest in how they're doing, and when Faize glances out toward them he thinks he can see Nadra's scarlet hair.

The ceremony, for the most part, involves standing still and waiting; Faize knew it would, and is doing his best to be patient, but he's far less interested in the pageantry than in its outcome. Perhaps here, too, the Thirteenth has rubbed off on him. Each of the cadets takes a turn, advancing to the front of the stage to be recognized and formally invited to join the comrades they've spent the year with. Some of them look proud, others relieved. The line on Faize's side of the stage grows steadily shorter.

And then, at last, it's his turn. He steps up to the front of the stage, and Arumat comes to meet him. It's subtle, but Faize likes to think he can see the changes the engineers have wrought; Arumat has always carried himself with the grace of a predator, but Faize likes to think there's more ease in it now, and sometimes it nearly seems there's a touch of living color in his face. One corner of his mouth twists in a commiserating smile as he steps up to meet Faize -- he's clearly no more excited to be sitting through the formalities.

"Faize Sheifa Beleth," Arumat says, clear and commanding. Faize raises his hand in salute; Arumat salutes back. "You have learned the techniques of Eldar's fiercest warriors. You have demonstrated your courage, your skill, and --" that little smile again -- "your determination. You have earned a place with the Thirteenth Independent Armored Division. Will you join us?"

"It would be my honor to serve alongside the brave, strong warriors who have taught me so much," Faize says. "And I would be proud to call you my captain."

Arumat extends his hand; Faize takes it. "Then welcome to the Thirteenth," Arumat says. "It's good to have you." He tugs Faize closer then, embraces him right there on the stage -- only briefly, but it's enough to provoke a murmur of surprise out of the audience. Let them gossip. Faize no longer cares. He accepts the Hive's congratulations, then follows his captain to the edge of the stage to wait out the rest of the ceremony.

In the wake of the ceremony, the graduating cadets return to their dormitory one last time, to collect their things before they move on to their new quarters and cede the dormitory to the next year's group. There are farewells, some of them tearful -- they'll all still be living in the Core, but it won't be the same as all being right here together. Something is coming to an end, as it must for something else to start.

Faize makes sure to find Tarik, before he leaves. "Well, we've made it through," he says; his bags are packed, and he has few enough things to his name that it shouldn't be any trouble to carry them over to the Thirteenth's barracks. "Congratulations."

Tarik smiles. "Thank you," he says. "And the same to you." He tucks folded clothes into the top of his bag. "I hope you'll stay in touch, when you're out there on your glorious mission."

"I will," Faize promises. "And it'll be another two months before we leave, in any case." He waits until Tarik looks up. "When we find a good site, you'll come to help build us a capital city, won't you?"

"Of course," Tarik says. "You couldn't keep me away."

He closes up his bag, and Faize embraces him; with any luck, they'll be able to find time to keep seeing each other once they've settled into their new routines. It's been pleasant, having a friend to talk to, someone whose perspective is a bit outside of his own regular concerns. Faize will just have to make sure they find the time, he decides as he carries his packed bags out of the dormitory into the red light of day. If he's determined enough for the officers of the Thirteenth to remark on it, then he's certainly capable enough to keep up one civilian friendship.

His new quarters are a small, junior officer's room in the Thirteenth barracks, on one of the mid-levels. It's nothing so grand as Arumat's rooms -- nor Nadra's or Malik's, he supposes, though he hasn't seen the inside of theirs -- but it's a place that's his own, not shared with anyone. He's responsible for looking after himself now, instead of being part of a group. It's a strange feeling.

It doesn't take long to put away the few possessions he has: clothes in the drawers set into the wall, game board and communicator on the desk, a few trinkets he's gotten from his comrades ranged on the shelf above it. He'll have to find some other things to decorate, to make this space feel like it truly belongs to him.

Later, though. That can wait. Faize chews his lip, making himself consider his actions carefully before he rushes into things. It's the end of his tempering year, now. He's no longer Arumat's personal responsibility. The lessons are at their end. Some things will have to change -- but there are some things that he hopes will continue.

Faize leaves his own room, takes the elevator up to the top floor and the captain's quarters. He knocks at the door, and he's nervous all over again, but it's different from the nervousness he remembers. He's here entirely by choice this time; there are no obligations to compel him. He is a full member of the Thirteenth. He fears nothing.

Arumat comes to the door instead of just ordering it opened, and he looks...guarded, Faize thinks. He's nervous as well. He's also been thinking about these things. "Faize," he says. "You..."

"The year is over. I know," Faize says. "You...could turn me away, if you wanted."

"No. I don't want to send you away," Arumat says. "Not in the least." He hesitates. "But it's no easy thing, to maintain a relationship when there is an existing chain of command."

Faize lifts his chin, looks Arumat straight in the eyes. "I'm up to the challenge if you are, captain."

Arumat's eyes narrow, and his smile is dangerous. Thrilling. He steps back. "Then I think you'd better come inside."


End file.
